Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  “You ought to do something about that cold,” she said, eyes icy.

  “Drafts — they’re a nuisance.” Even dusted with barn dirt and wearing raggedy breeches she was attractive. He decided he liked her caustic wit — irksome, but exciting.

  “I’m asking permission to leave, sir,” she said.

  That was a shock. He’d thought she had a little more spunk. “I was hoping you could stay on a bit longer,” he said. “It’s going to be harder taming Manifesto without you.”

  “I didn’t mean leave permanently,” Ellie snapped. “I need to get back to the Albright stables to give notice and return their gelding.”

  “Oh.”

  “And when I return, I’ll expect to have a room ready for me.”

  “You will, eh?” Remembering her white skin, the water droplets coursing down her slim figure, he wondered if finding her a room could be postponed. “Just get back as quickly as possible,” he said. “I’ll work on finding you suitable accommodations.”

  “And I’ll not be mucking stalls again, will I, my lord?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “So you’ve got your stable boys back then? I witnessed quite a crowd of them at supper.”

  “Yes, well … ”

  “And your trainers seemed fairly spruce for having lifted dung all morning. Unlike myself, my lord.”

  “The other barns weren’t affected by the shortage.”

  “You see, at the Albright stables, the trainers train the horses. When I came here, I expected the same treatment. If I was mistaken, we need to re-negotiate my employment.”

  Impudent chit, I ought to boot her out the door and say farewell, he thought.

  “And you won’t be racing Manifesto without me,” she added, predicting his thoughts. “He won’t move for you.”

  She spoke the truth and Hugh knew it — and he wasn’t anxious to give Manifesto another chance to shred his clothing. Besides, he had a few life lessons he’d like to teach her. “Very well then, on your return, you’ll be riding, not shoveling.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Now, I’ll need one of your horses to ride back from the Albrights’.”

  “I’m sure my coachman can find something for you. Won’t be as spirited as Manifesto, but he’ll find something.”

  “Any nag will do. I’ll be leaving right away,” she said, standing. The spaniel jumped back into his spot on the chair, sinking deep into the upholstery.

  “Excellent,” Hugh replied. “I’ll accompany you to the barn and see that you’re taken care of.”

  • • •

  Hugh signaled his coachman. “Could you bring out Old Nell for Toby, Mr. Roger?”

  Ellie thought she saw a look of surprise on Mr. Roger’s cratered face, but Hugh escorted her swiftly from the barn.

  The sound of an angry whinny followed. Ellie wondered just how old Old Nell could be to make such a racket.

  Furious horse sounds were followed by a chorus of cursing, as Old Nell burst through the barn door dragging three men behind her. Two held a lead on one side and a man as huge and pink as a side of beef clutched the other. Old Nell bucked and snapped like a thing possessed. Ellie glared at Hugh. He averted his gaze and scratched his knee. “I guess she’s in a bad mood today,” he said.

  “That would be my impression,” she shot back.

  “Old Nell’s not usually like this.”

  “She’s not, eh? What’s she usually like — a cyclone?”

  Hugh pressed his lips together and a flicker of guilt crossed his face. “Boys, take Nell back to her stall,” he shouted above the din.

  “That’s all right,” said Ellie.

  “No. No it’s not. The horse isn’t fit to be ridden. Take her back, Mr. Roger.”

  “My lord,” she hissed, “you made me look a fool in front of your men today. I can handle this vixen. The least you can do is let a chap save face.”

  Hugh shook his head. “Manifesto taught me the hard way to respect limits. I’m trying to warn you of Old Nell’s.”

  “I consider myself warned,” Ellie said. “Mr. Roger, please put that horse into your smallest paddock.”

  The men moved the mare into an enclosure where Ellie directed them to unbuckle the reins and put up the stirrups. After a considerable amount of sweat, dust and swearing, they let Old Nell free. As they dashed out, the mare chased them, bucking, snorting, and rushing at anyone who dared come near the rails.

  “Let’s all leave her alone for a few minutes,” Ellie said, walking away.

  The men and Hugh looked disappointed. Reluctantly they gathered at a cistern by the barn where they conferred in low, worried tones. Ellie couldn’t hear them, but she knew they were talking about the upcoming battle with Old Nell. She decided to ignore them and went to the tack room.

  Digging through a few trunks, she found a piece of thick rope and a square of oil cloth. She tied the cloth to the end of a long whip.

  About twenty minutes later, everyone reconvened at the paddock. Old Nell had calmed down and was searching for blades of grass in the dust. Ellie parked the beefy groom at the gate. “If I start running for it, you’ll let me out good and quick, right?”

  The groom nodded his massive pink head. “Got it,” he said.

  Hugh took up a position along the rail.

  Old Nell raised her head and fixed a wary eye on Ellie as she entered the paddock. She swung the thick rope around and around above her head, and simultaneously rattled the oil cloth at Old Nell’s eye. The horse flattened her ears and charged, running straight into the whirling rope. The mare got a powerful smack on her face for her troubles. She bolted out of rope range and stopped to eye Ellie again. “Come on, Old Nell, I want you to trot along the outside rail,” Ellie commanded, turning her body in the direction she wished Old Nell to go. The horse looked skeptical. Ellie shook the oilskin again. The sound unnerved Old Nell, so she trotted away and started circling.

  Less than a lap around the paddock, the mare charged again. And again she got a hard smack in the face from the rope. Old Nell bucked, moving backward towards Ellie, her hind legs working like deadly pistons.

  “Get out!” yelled Hugh, clambering half way over the fence.

  Ellie sidestepped Old Nell’s haunches, but let the horse back into the swinging rope. Whack! The sting sent Old Nell bolting to the safety of the outside rail. This time Ellie didn’t ask nicely for a trot. She shook the oilskin at Old Nell’s eye, driving her into a full gallop. Deciding it was safer, the mare stayed on the rail.

  • • •

  “By God, it’s working,” Hugh said to himself, shaking his head in amazement.

  He studied the precision of the girl’s encouragement and disapproval of Old Nell’s moment by moment behavior — her coordination in swinging the rope and shaking the oilskin. Then his focus strayed to her tightly clad thighs, and he could not drag his eyes away.

  The late afternoon sun pierced dust-thickened air in beams of light. Old Nell flashed in and out of the glare as she cantered around the paddock. Hugh watched the girl’s slim figure follow the mare through the fractured sunlight. He remembered her alabaster body lit by the fire of the hurricane lamp, the pearl orbs of her breasts, the water tracing curves down her stomach.

  Ashamed, he gripped the fence rail and shook his head, forcing himself to focus on her eyes. Piercing blue – and concentrated on the horse. Nothing else existed for her.

  He craned to see the nape of her neck. Blast that floppy hat, he thought. It’s hanging too low.

  His gaze went back to her thighs. I wouldn’t mind seeing more women in trousers, he thought. She takes long strides. Girlish strides, though. Wouldn’t do for a man to be walking like that. Popinjay, they’d say. She ought to be careful. It startled him that he cared.

  Old Ne
ll bucked as she circled the pen, but the girl made her gallop – kicking became an impractical waste of energy.

  Finally, at the girl’s command — a quick shake of the oilskin — Old Nell stopped, changed direction, sped up, and slowed down.

  Lowering the oilskin and rope, the girl turned away from the mare.

  Hugh tensed, waiting for Old Nell to charge. Instead, the horse stood still, waiting for a command. When none came, the animal walked to her trainer where she accepted a carrot and lowered her head for the bridle.

  “Gad, that wretched beast is docile as a well-fed dog,” Hugh said to no one in particular.

  The girl’s hands moved behind the bit. Does she have her finger in that horse’s mouth? He wiped his brow. She stroked Old Nell’s tongue, breathing gentle words into the mare’s velveteen nostrils. Heat grew in his groin.

  Quite a crowd had formed along the fence rail. Realizing he would have to congratulate her on her training skills, he swiped his handkerchief over the back of his neck and across his brow. If he left the fence, everyone would see the excitement that refused to abate in his groin. “Excellent!” he cried, choosing to stay behind the rail. He started a smattering of awed applause from the farmhands.

  The girl seemed not to hear. She buckled the reins back on Old Nell’s bridle and mounted. The horse stood still. “Could someone fetch the gelding for me?” she asked.

  “Mr. Roger,” said Hugh, “Could you fetch the gir — ah, Toby’s horse please.”

  By the time the gelding was ready, Hugh had regained his control. “Here you are, Toby, ready for the hike,” he said, handing her the gelding’s lead. Before he knew what he was doing, his hand closed around her thigh just above the knee. The muscle was deliciously hard, encased in a soft layer of flesh. He gave what he hoped was a masculine shake to the leg. “With training skills like that, Toby, we’ll miss you even for a night. Hurry back.”

  • • •

  Hugh’s farewell shake of her thigh sent a zing to every fiber in Ellie’s body. She touched her heels to Old Nell’s side, and gripping the gelding’s lead, rode swiftly out of the paddock. “I’ll be back soon, my lord,” she said, urging the horse into a canter.

  But as Hugh and Cowick Hill disappeared from view, the spot where he’d touched her continued to tingle, as if her thigh had taken on a life of its own. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about the warmth of that hand.

  Do men touch each other like that? she wondered. She’d seen them slap backs in a hale, hearty way, but on the thigh?

  “What a rogue.” Her voice surprised her. “A rogue in sheep’s clothing. He pretends to be a gentleman, but he’s a rogue.” The thought pleased her. It had the right note of disdain. Still, the feel of his strong fingers persisted. She tried to concentrate on the road, but the tingling grew.

  In time with Old Nell’s steady stride, Ellie repeated over and over, “A rogue, a rogue, a rogue … ”

  She brooded about the rough way he’d grabbed and spanked her — the power in his arms, the outrage on his chiseled face.

  The tingling caught fire. She pushed Old Nell to walk faster. Now the tingling pulsed in the deepest part of her womanhood. It ran down her legs and throbbed in her breasts. His hand on her leg: cords of blue veins, the fringe of hair on the knuckles … the image hijacked her mind. Nell’s long strides rocked Ellie gently back and forth in the saddle.

  The tingle became a delicious itch that consumed her. “Oh,” Ellie gasped. “Oh, oh.” Her breath caught. She moved with the horse, pushing against the saddle, mouth open, head back, eyes closed. And then a bolt of pleasure rocketed to every part of her. Her mind buzzed. The commotion in her body blurred the scenery and left her shuddering.

  When the feeling subsided, Ellie pressed the mare into a canter. I must never ride this horse again, she thought. And from now on, I will do anything to avoid Hugh Davenport.

  • • •

  Walking back to the house from the barn, Hugh found his mind would focus on only one thing: Toby. He’d admired many a wench’s tiny waist or buxom breasts, or both, but not her skills, horse training, or otherwise. This was a chit who could do something useful. And she was pretty. Oh, and her thigh — hard with that womanly layer of softness encasing the muscle. Delightful leg. Superlative leg.

  If he did approach her, what if one of the stable hands saw? They’d think he was seducing a man. Not the best impression to leave with a bunch of barnyard gossips. Worse, what if she didn’t accept him? Gad, she’s pretty, and what a rider.

  Thoughts scattered like frightened birds — without warning Hugh found himself plunging toward the dark depths of the fountain pool. Face inches from the water surrounding the statue of the nymph, he saved himself by plunging both arms to the elbow in wet. The spouting fish the nymph clutched doused his head. “Bloody hell,” he cursed, glaring at the structure. “Did they move this damn thing?” The nymph smiled her stony secret.

  I must never walk this bloody path again, thought Hugh. And from now on, I’d better avoid Toby Coopersmith.

  Chapter Four

  Lady Davenport bustled into the library. It had the best afternoon light, and a new edition of The Baronetage had just come in the post.

  She sat on a divan by the window and flipped through the pages. A crunching noise stopped her perusal.

  “What are you doing you dreadful dog?” she said, addressing the spaniel, who had his muzzle deep in the cushioned chair. Sport gazed at her with innocent eyes. “Cease or out.”

  She resumed turning pages. The dog returned to munching. “Quiet!” she ordered. The spaniel looked uncomfortable. He stood, turned around, and settled back in the chair.

  Lady Davenport’s eyes zeroed in on a juicy bit about Edmund Billingsworth Toping. “He’s come into his father’s title, at last,” she said to no one. Chuckling, she remembered how he’d gallantly tossed his cloak into a puddle to protect her slippers. It had been a cold night, he couldn’t put the cloak back on, and the coachman wouldn’t let him in the carriage with the ruined garment.

  Chomping interrupted her reverie. Sport’s nose was immersed in the chair cushion again. “I said, stop that infernal chewing,” she scolded. “That’s it, you’re out.”

  As she rose from the divan, the spaniel dug frantically in the upholstery. By the time she reached the dog, he’d secured his prize. Dangling from sharp canine teeth was the most magnificent string of pearls she’d ever seen.

  “Good heavens, where did you get that?” She reached for the necklace, but Sport leaped off the chair, tripped on the pearls and struggled to his feet. “Oh my God, don’t break them,” she squealed.

  Dragging the strand between his legs, Sport ducked under a library table.

  “Come out of there at once!” Lady Davenport commanded. The spaniel backed further under the table, and closed his mouth over a glowing pearl.

  “No, no, don’t chew,” she gasped. She could find nothing to flush out the dog — no yard stick or broom — and she certainly didn’t want the servants involved. Taking great care with her satins and laces, she hiked up her skirt and lowered herself to her knees. Her enormous breasts hovered just above the floor. As she lowered herself to crawl under the table, she held her bosoms aloft with one arm.

  Sport’s eyes filled with excitement. He bowed, front legs out and rump in the air. “This is not playtime,” she warned the dog.

  Relinquishing her burden, Lady Davenport made a grab for the necklace and pulled. The spaniel backed away. Eyes bright, he jerked his head back and forth, whipping the precious strand.

  Lady Davenport immediately let go. “You abominable beast,” she hissed. “I’ll have you beaten and boiled.” The dog bounced with a yip and frisked away in triumph, catching the strand on the claw foot of a globe table. She hoisted herself to her feet, supporting her weight on a standing candelab
ra, then followed the delighted dog. Just as she was on the verge of grabbing him, the spaniel scooted behind a potted fern.

  Heart hammering from exertion, Lady Davenport approached the plant. “Come out, little doggie,” she trilled. “I’ve got the nicest treat for you. How about a juicy beating straight down to the bone?” The spaniel sat on the pearls and yawned.

  With a speed and agility not often seen in one her age, Lady Davenport dashed to the fern, crushing fronds beneath the weight of her chests as she made a lightning-fast grab for Sport. She missed.

  The spaniel skittered on the parquet, dragging the pearls with him. She cut him off before he could escape from behind the fern.

  The door burst open and Hugh strode into the library. “Is something the matter, Mother?” he said. Startled, Sport dropped the pearls. In one quick swipe, Lady Davenport snatched the necklace and dropped it under the fern’s flattened foliage.

  “Mother, what are you doing to that plant?” said Hugh, lifting the excited spaniel into his arms.

  “It’s an interesting phenomena,” Lady Davenport replied, trying to control her breathing. “Ferns have the most remarkable … fronds.”

  “I suppose,” Hugh said.

  “Long fronds with many leaves. Or would you say each frond is a leaf?”

  “You take me by storm, Mother. Do you really want to know about fern leaves?”

  “Well, they are fascinating,” she said.

  “Not to you. Not unless that fern is illicitly dipping its pistil in an inferior plant’s stamen.”

  “Don’t be disgusting, Hugh,” she replied. Lady Davenport drew herself to her full imposing height and stalked to the door. “I want that dog out.”

  Hugh put Sport down and the dog slunk from the room.

  With false composure, she addressed her son. “Before I vacate the library, dear, I wanted you to know I’ve planned a little house party for the month of June. Our guests will arrive the day after tomorrow. That lovely Albright girl you were speaking to at the Mortimer assembly is coming with her sisters, isn’t that grand?”